


A Man In a Hat

by Anditsouttahere



Category: Justified
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anditsouttahere/pseuds/Anditsouttahere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A story beginning from the S3 finale. What happens now? Will Raylan find a way to get Boyd for Devil's murder? What's next for Raylan and Winona?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_A/N and disclaimer...I don't own Justified, if I did, these two would find a way to work things out and I would_ ** _neve_** _r, ever run out of stories for them. Any dialogue direct from the finale is used with apologies, and Winona's thoughts are simply my interpretation._

_This was written after nudging by MSBrooklyn at fanfiction.net. Thanks for the push, my dear!_

A Man in a Hat

"Winona, wake up." Gayle is shaking her, not gently. "Your damn cowboy is on my front porch. He says he wants to talk to you. Say the word and I'll tell him to go to..."

She sits up, shaking off the heaviness of sleep and throwing off the covers. "No, no. I'll talk to him."

Gayle rolls her eyes. "Of course you will." There's that sigh, so like their mother's, and her sister swings around, hands on her hips, pointing a finger at Winona. "I swear, if you go back to him _again.._."

"Let him in, Gayle, okay?" Running a hand through her tangled hair she shoves it up in a twist and sticks a pin in to hold it. Something must've happened to make him come here. They haven't talked since the day she found the gun that killed Gary. She'd texted after the last doctor's appointment to let him know everything was fine and he'd texted back a thank you. That was it. She misses him, but she can't afford to show it. Not to Gayle and certainly not to Raylan. She barely acknowledges it to herself. She takes a deep breath and walks out to meet him in the foyer.

"I'm going back to bed," Gayle says, shooting Raylan a murderous look. He dips his head and looks at Winona from under the hat. She can't help smiling.

"She doesn't like me," he says, when Gayle disappears down the hall.

Winona rolls her eyes. "You're very perceptive."

"God, I could use a drink."

"We've got milk. And I think there's some apple juice."

"Nothin' stronger?"

"Gayle and Peter don't drink," she says. She rests a hand on the slight bulge of her belly. "Neither do I at the moment."

The hat is off and he runs a hand through his hair. "Got water?"

"That I have." She goes to the kitchen and gets him some, hands him the glass and walks down the hall to the bedroom, her only bastion of privacy in this house. He follows without a word.

The room is small anyway, and now it's packed with the rocker, the hand-me-down crib, and the baby supplies Gayle keeps stockpiling. You'd think Winona was due any day with twins. Raylan finds the chair shoved next to the crib and sinks down with a sigh.

She leans in the door frame, keeping her distance. "Why are you here?"

He looks up at her. "This how it's gonna be? You really wanna do it this way?"

He looks so defeated, so tired and spent. If he asks her right now to come back...if he says he misses her...needs her...she pushes the thought away. "Raylan...really...why are you here?"

He starts talking about Harlan. She should have known. God, she _hates_ that place. Then he mentions a dead trooper and she stops him.

"Was he married?"

He doesn't look at her, just nods slowly. "Two kids."

She swallows hard, hugging her arms to her chest, and he's off again, telling about Wynn Duffy, whose name sounds familiar, some mobster from Detroit, and two kidnapped kids. When he gets to the part about the severed arm she stares at him, wide-eyed, but he doesn't notice. He just goes on about Boyd Crowder being arrested for killing someone named Devil, and Arlo taking the blame for killing the trooper _and_ the guy Boyd was supposed to have killed.

"So Boyd got his release." He shrugs. "I asked him how it felt, letting a feeble old man take the fall for him, but it didn't seem to bother him none. Art thought I'd be upset, so he offered me a drink which I didn't need but I took anyway."

"And then you came here lookin' for another drink you didn't need."

"You sure your sister's got nothing stronger than water? Not even light beer?"

"I offered you milk or apple juice." He looks up at her again with that half-grin and she has to steel herself not to go to him, curl herself against him, and let the past few weeks just be a bad dream. Instead... "Raylan, why are you here?" She asks again.

"I toldja when I came in. Just wonderin' how all this is gonna work out. You just gonna stay here with your sister until the baby's born?"

"I am."

"Thought I might pat the belly...see the latest sonogram."

She cocks her head. "Tell me a story about a man getting his arm chopped off?"

"You know what they're sayin' at the office?"

His eyes twinkle and there's a punchline coming, she knows it. She raises an eyebrow and waits.

"I 'disarmed' him."

"Pretty good." She nods. They're at an impasse. Again. The exhaustion she feels has nothing to do with being woken up in the middle of the night, but it must show on her face because he eases to his feet.

"I'd better get goin', let you get back to sleep."

He rests a hand on her belly, just for a moment, and something he said earlier pops into her head. "Only thing I don't understand...why did Art think you'd be upset?"

"I guess it was why Arlo shot Bergan."

"Which was?"

"He didn't know it was a state trooper...just saw a man in a hat pointing a gun at Boyd."

"A man in a hat?"

He slides that sideways smile at her, the sad, regretful one. "Yeah." He slips the hat on his head and disappears down the hall.

A man in a hat? _A man in a hat. Oh, my God!_ _Arlo thought it was Raylan...his own son..._ She stands frozen for a long moment. "Raylan!" She calls. The door clicks shut as she moves down the hall and she almost breaks into a run. He's at the car when she throws the door open.

"Raylan," she says, again.

He hangs his head. "Don't, Winona."

She knows if she pushes too hard he'll break and if he breaks, the fragile wall between them will collapse. She needs that wall, so she doesn't tell him how sorry she is or move any closer. She just wraps her arms around herself against the chill night air and looks at him.

"Go on back inside."

"I see the doctor again on Thursday for another sonogram if you want to come."

His head is still down and she can hardly hear his answer. "That'd be good, yeah."

"I'll call you with the time."

"Okay, then." He opens the door. "G'night."

She leans against the porch rail, one hand rubbing small circles over the swell that is their child, and watches as he backs out of the drive. She's still standing there when his taillights disappear down the road.


	2. Daddy Issues

He's late. She crosses and uncrosses her legs and glances at her watch. The doctor is running late, too, as usual, so it isn't a problem, but Raylan promised he'd be here and she doesn't know whether to be disappointed, angry, or just unsurprised. Sighing, she tosses the magazine she was thumbing through back on the table and pulls out her phone. She types: _Where are you?_ and hits send just as the door opens and he walks in.

The hat is missing and he's wearing his good black suit. He's loosened the tie and undone the top two buttons of the white shirt. His hair is wind-blown, and the dark circles under his eyes speak to a lack of sleep. Still he's undeniably handsome, and the little flutter her heart gives when she sees him reminds her that no matter what she tells him and herself, things will never really be over between them. She cocks her head at the unexpected wardrobe choice and then it hits her. He's been at the funeral for the trooper; the one Arlo shot. He sinks into the chair beside her. "Sorry I'm late."

She lays a hand on his arm. "Why didn't you tell me the funeral was today?"

"I wanted to be here." He shrugs.

"I could've changed the appointment."

He stares at her as if the idea never occurred to him. "You'da done that?"

"I asked you to come," she says. "I wanted you here, so yes, if you'd told me, I could've made it another day." She smiles. "It's not like my schedule is that full." She takes her hand off his arm and fiddles with the straps of her purse. "Are you okay?"

He looks away, out the window at the fading afternoon sunshine. Before he can answer, the nurse calls her name. "Winona Givens?"

Raylan's head whips around, one eyebrow raised in question.

She feels her face flush. "I should've asked you...it's just with Gary being...dead...and..." She drops her head. "...it'll be the baby's name. After what he did...I didn't want to be a Hawkins anymore. But if you don't want me using it I understand. I can go back to my maiden name."

"It's fine."

In the exam room the nurse takes her pulse and blood pressure, asks a few questions about how she's feeling, then leaves to let her undress. She feels awkward and embarrassed. Raylan smiles and dips his head in that way he has. "Go ahead, I won't look. Promise." He holds up two fingers, like a Boy Scout pledge, and she laughs. She takes off her blouse and skirt, laying them over the chair, and slips into the gown, leaving it open in the front. She hops on the table, swinging her feet. Raylan sits in the chair next to her and stretches those long legs out in front of him.

"Long day?"

"The longest." He sighs.

She knows that on some level he feels responsible for Tom Bergan's death. She wants to tell him he's not. She wants to tell him that's ridiculous. She wants to tell him that what Arlo did had nothing to do with him, but she knows he wouldn't believe her, and anyway, after what he's told her, she's not even sure it's true. "I'm glad you're here." It must be the right thing to say, because she gets a shadow of a smile in answer.

"Me, too."

* * *

His mind drifts as they wait for the doctor. They never were real good at small talk, but right now he wishes to God Winona would prattle on about _something_...anything to distract him from the pictures in his head. Tom Bergan's widow, face tight with grief, clutching the folded flag to her chest. An older couple he assumes were the trooper's parents, arms around each other, the woman sobbing quietly. The blank confused look on the faces of the two kids as they stared at their father's coffin.

Raylan stood next to Art and Rachel, felt two pairs of eyes on him as the graveside service played out. When he flinched at the rifle salute, Rachel looked up at him, concern etched on her face. But it was Art who came back for him when he stayed too long, staring at the hole in the ground that held his friend and fellow officer. It was Art who led him back to the car and reminded him of this appointment. He'd been grateful for the excuse not to go back to the Bergan house with the rest of them.

He's immensely relieved when the doctor finally interrupts his thoughts, coming in pushing the sonogram cart and apologizing for their wait. Warm and effiecient, she greets Winona, and shoots him a smile. "Well, let's see how this baby is doing."

Winona's nervous. He can tell. He's not sure if it's the procedure, which seems about the same as last time to him, or this uneasy truce between them. He watches her face as the doctor moves the wand across the round swell of her belly.

"Do you want to know the sex?" The doctor asks.

Winona slides her eyes to his. "It's up to you."

He's surprised enough to stare at her for a minute. They haven't talked about this. He throws the question back at her. "Do you want to know?"

When Winona doesn't immediately answer, the doctor jumps in. "Most people these days like to find out," she says. "But, some still want it to be a surprise."

"I've never been much for surprises," Raylan says.

Winona laughs. "I guess you'd better tell us then." In another unexpected move, she reaches for his hand, linking her fingers though his.

The doctor smiles and points to the screen. "Well, this baby is a boy and he looks just about perfect."

He feels Winona's eyes on him and squeezes her hand. He can't look at her right now. One look at his face and she'll know he's scared shitless. It's a boy. He's going to have a son. How in the hell is he going to do this? He'd convinced himself if it was a girl, he could handle a girl. He got along well enough with Loretta...and Art raised two girls, so he'd be handing out advice whether Raylan asked for it or not. But a boy? Shit.

The doctor pushes a button and the printer on the other side of the room comes to life.

Winona squints at the screen. "Could you print two pictures?"

"Sure, no problem." The doctor smiles. "Sending one to the grandparents?"

"Um, yes," she says. She shoots Raylan a look, and he manages to keep his face blank.

The doctor hands the pictures to Winona. "I want to watch your blood pressure. It's a little elevated. Come in next week to have it checked, okay? The nurse can do it. You don't need an appointment."

"Should I be worried?"

"Not at this point. Besides," the doctor puts a hand on her shoulder and smiles. "...worrying can elevate your blood pressure. Let's just check it in a week and see."

* * *

In the parking lot they both hesitate, standing by her car. She shifts from one foot to the other and pulls the sweater tighter around her, hugging her arms to her chest. "So, it's a boy." She says, soft. "Are you happy?"

He keeps his head down, one hand on his hip. "The doc says he's doin' good, so that's the important thing."

"We could talk about names now. I mean...not now...today but...sometime...if you want."

A half-grin slides across his mouth. "Does this mean you've decided against Jiffy Pop?"

She smiles remembering their conversation. "Seeing him, I just don't think it fits."

He tugs the tie off and stuffs it in his pocket. "Maybe...next week when you come to check in with the doc...we could have lunch." He looks up, his eyes meeting hers.

There's something broken, and yet so hopeful in his words that her eyes fill and she looks away, hoping he didn't see but knowing he sees everything. She clears her throat. "That sounds good. Let's do that."

He steps closer and for a moment she wonders if he's going to hug her, but he just lays one broad hand on the belly. "Thanks," he says. "Give me a call."

"I will."

He hesitates, his hand still resting on their child, and when he speaks, his voice is so low and quiet she almost misses the words. "What kind of father can I possibly be?" He says. "All things considered."

Winona covers his hand with her own. "All things considered, I think you'll do just fine."

"I hope you're right."

"I am. I know it." He meets her eyes again, and this time she manages to hold his gaze.


	3. Boys and Girls

He steps off the elevator with the unavoidable flashback to that night, Arlo in tow and the stares of the entire Marshal's office on him as he walked his handcuffed father into the conference room. This morning his head aches and he's tired to the bone, but he's here. Work, even the boring paperwork Art's been throwing at him since Arlo's arrest, is preferable to sitting around his empty apartment brooding. He's barely in the door when Art spies him.

"Raylan, in my office," his boss says.

Tossing the hat on his desk with a sigh, Raylan follows him, ignoring the sympathetic glance he gets from Rachel. Tim keeps his head down, either absorbed in the file he's reading or determined to give him some space. Whichever it is, Raylan appreciates it.

"Shut the door."

"I'm fine, Art." He stands in front of the desk. "Really, I..."

"I'm not so sure I believe that, but I didn't call you in here to inquire about your state of well-being." He slides an envelope across the desk. "Ballistics are back. One of the guns we found at Arlo's matches the bullet that killed Tom Bergen."

The guilt washes over him again, but he keeps his voice steady. "No surprise there." Raylan flips open the file and glances through it. He looks up to find Art studying him. "There somethin' else?"

"None of the guns match the bullet that killed Devil Ellis."

"I'd say that's no surprise either since we know damn well Arlo didn't have anything to do with that. Boyd killed Devil. You know it as well as I do."

Art nods. "Be nice to have some evidence to dispute Arlo's confession."

"Good luck with that," Raylan snorts. "If there was any, Boyd and Ava have taken care of it by now."

"Might help if we could find out who called in that original tip now, wouldn't it?"

It's Raylan's turn to study his boss. "Why are you suddenly so interested in gettin Boyd? You're usually the one tellin' me to back off."

Art leans on the desk and crosses his arms over his chest. "Difference is, this time we had him dead to rights and then hadta watch him walk outta here scot-free. And it wasn't even because you were sleepin' with a witness. Kinda gets in my craw."

Raylan ignores the jab. "I could talk to the locals...see if they have any idea where the call came from."

"Phone records might tell us something," Art agrees. "Go ahead, but check back with me before you do anything else." He points a finger. "Don't go headin' down there."

"I won't." For once, he has no intention of disobeying. Harlan is the last place he wants to be. His hand is on the doorknob when Art speaks again.

"How's Winona?"

He hears the question under the question. "Good. She's good."

"Everything's fine with the baby?"

"Yeah. "It's a boy." He smiles, despite the fear that clenches in his gut at voicing the words.

Art laughs and slaps his shoulder. "A boy, huh? Congratulations."

"Thanks," he says, and means it. Art's expression is one of genuine happiness and maybe a little pride and for a moment, Raylan allows himself to feel some of that too. A little bit of the joy he felt that morning when Winona told him about the baby washes over him and it almost obscures the dread.

Art throws a thumb back at the file cabinet. "I'd offer you a drink, but it's a little early."

"I'll take a raincheck."

"You got it." Art grins. "A boy." He shakes his head. "That's just great. And from what I hear they're cheaper than girls."

Raylan taps the file against the doorframe. "I'll see what I can get on the phone tip."

"Let me know."

* * *

Gayle pours coffee into her cup and pulls out the chair across from Winona. "So, it's a boy? Have you thought more about names?" She takes a sip of her coffee and when Winona doesn't answer goes on. "If Emma had been a boy we were going to name him Nicholas." She purses her lips and taps a finger on the table. "Winona? Where are you?"

"What? Oh, did you say something? Sorry." Winona moves the eggs around on her plate. "I guess I'm not that hungry."

"I asked if you'd thought any more about names since you know it's a boy." Gayle rises and takes the plate, scraping the uneaten eggs into the sink. She sticks a slice of bread in the toaster. "I'll make you toast. You've got to eat something."

"I'll eat later."

"Are you nauseous? I thought that was better."

Winona huffs out a breath, wishing, not for the first time, that she was living somewhere else. Alone. But, without a job there really isn't any place else, and who's going to hire someone who would need immediate maternity leave? Maybe she shouldn't have quit her job. "I'm just not that hungry. I can fix myself something later."

"But you won't." Gayle butters the toast and sets it down in front of her. "Eat."

She takes an unenthusiastic bite. "Raylan and I are going to talk about names soon." She feels Gayle's eyes on her. "It's his baby, too."

"I wish you'd just let it go," Gayle says.

Winona stops with the toast halfway to her mouth. "What are you talking about?"

"You know he's not gonna be the kind of father you want for this child. You want someone who'll be there all the time. He can't even be there for you...how's he gonna be there for a baby?"

Winona feels the tears well up. How does her sister always manage to find her greatest fear and poke it with a stick?

Gayle reaches across the table and covers Winona's hand with her own. "You're a beautiful woman. You'll find somone else. Someone who can be a real father to this baby. Even Raylan'll see that it's better that way."

She pulls her hand away and stares at Gayle. "What are you saying? That Raylan is going to just go away? Drop out of his child's life?" She shakes her head. "He'd never do that. He wants this baby as much as I do. He's going to love him and..."

"And what? Come to all his ball games and school events and be there when he's sick?" Gayle snorts. "Not likely." She sets her coffee cup down too hard, splashing brown liquid on the table. "He's gonna be off playing cowboy, chasing down bad guys, and getting himself shot at."

God. Gayle's words exhaust her. How can she possibly be this tired when she just woke up? She pushes up from the chair. "I didn't sleep very well. I'm going to lie back down for a bit." She tosses the rest of the toast in the garbage. "I promise I'll eat something when I get up." She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. "He's a good man, Gayle. He wants to be a good father."

"He likes to shoot people, Winona." Gayle shakes her head and dumps her cold coffee in the sink. "Seems like it runs in the family."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that," Winona says flatly. "I know you don't like him. You never have. You've _always_ made that perfectly clear." Childishly she wishes her bare feet made a louder sound as she stomps down the hall.

In the bedroom she pulls out the sack of baby things she bought at the mall on her way home from the doctor. Smiling, she fingers the soft cloth printed with horses, boots, and cowboy hats. She hadn't been able to resist. There's a soft rap at the door and she takes a deep breath. "Come in."

Gayle stops in the doorway. "I shouldn't have said that," she says. "I just...worry about you. I can tell you still love him, but he's no good for you...he's not what you need and..."

"Well, I'm no good for him, either. That's why I'm living with you."

Gayle nods. "I know, but every time you leave to go see him I feel like I'm watching an alcoholic walk into a liqour store."

She lays back on the bed, still holding the tiny shirt. "I'm going to see him, Gayle. He's this baby's daddy and we've got to figure out how to make it work. But I'm not going back to him."

Her sister shrugs. "So you say. Seems like I've heard that before."

"Go to work, Gayle." Winona rolls over and buries her face in the pillow.


	4. Under Pressure

Raylan taps his fingers on the bar, waiting for Art's response.

"So," his boss says, after a moment. "The call that put the locals onto Crowder came from a cell phone, no longer in use, but it pinged off the tower closest to Noble's Holler?"

"Yeah."

"You think it's Limehouse?"

"Limehouse or one of his men. He knows more about the goings on in Harlan than just about anyone else, includin' Boyd." He takes a swallow of the bourbon. It's the good stuff, smooth as silk, and it burns all the way down. "He talks big about keepin' to himself and mindin' his own business but if you ask me, that's a crock of shit."

Art rubs his chin with one hand. "I suppose you wanna go down there."

"Not really, no." Raylan admits. "But if it means finding somethin' we can hang on Boyd ..."

"Go on down tomorrow. Talk to Limehouse and see what you can get outta him. Take Tim or Rachel."

"Which one?"

"Hell, I don't care. " Art chuckles, lifting his own glass. "Have 'em flip a coin."

-o-o-O-o-o-

 _Flip a coin_. Raylan stands by the elevator the next morning, fingering the quarter in his hand. The last time he brought Rachel to Noble's Holler, she made a remark about being an ambassador for Black America. He grimaces and imagines spending time on the road with Tim. That could be fine, if Tim is in one of his quiet moods but if he's in a mood to start playing mind games because he finds it amusing...

Then again, Limehouse's reaction to Tim might almost be worth it.

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Tails. You lose," Rachel said, her perfect white teeth flashing in a grin. "Enjoy your time in Harlan."

"Shit." Tim says, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair. He glares at Raylan. "Why you taking back-up anyway? You _never_ take back-up. It's kinda your signature. Then we have to make like the cavalry and swoop in and rescue you. That's kinda _my_ signature."

"Look," Raylan says, sliding on the hat and fishing his keys from his pocket. "Art told me to take one of ya, so I'm just following orders. You got a problem, take it up with Art."

"What is this? Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens 2.0?" Tim smirks. "You got a reason for havin' someone along or you wouldn't be takin' someone along, orders or no orders." He pushes the elevator button. "Spill. What've you got up your sleeve?"

""Up my sleeve? Nothin'. I just could use an extra hand." He lowers his head so Tim can't see the grin spreading across his face.

Raylan considers telling Tim the truth. He doesn't really want to go to Harlan at all, and certainly not alone, but he's not sure how such a revelation would be received.

In the car, it seems Raylan's gotten lucky. This is one of Tim's contemplative days. He watches in silence as they leave the city and wind into the mountains and Raylan is grateful. Maybe the younger man just hasn't had enough coffee, but he wonders if Tim's sensed that today just isn't the day to give him a lot of shit.

-o-o-O-o-o-

Three guys holding rifles come out of nowhere when they pull onto the bridge separating Nobles Holler from the rest of Harlan County. Evidently, Limehouse has enhanced his security. The youngest of the three is a guy Raylan recalls seeing in the diner on one of his earlier visits. The other two are unknowns.

"Who does this Limehouse think he is?" Tim asks. "Don Corleone?"

"The Great Protector of His People." Raylan rolls his eyes and rolls down the window, slipping the Marshal's star from his belt and flashing it at the young man. "Morning, Bernard. Deputy Marshals Givens and Gutterson. We need to speak to Mr. Limehouse."

The kid spits on the pavement, shifts the tobacco in his cheek, and calls out to the others. "It's the Feds." Something is yelled back and he waves the Lincoln through.

Raylan parks in front of the ramshackle set of buildings and turns off the ignition. "Let me do the talkin'," he says to Tim.

"No problem. I happily defer to the Hillbilly Whisperer."

He shoots Tim a glare. "This guy may look like simple country folk, but take it from me, he ain't." He pushes the door open and they walk into the diner.

"Why Marshal Givens," Limhouse drawls from behind the counter. "Didn't 'spect I'd see you back 'round these parts so soon."

"Neither did I," Raylan says. "It's not a social visit."

"I didn't think it was." He lays his ever-present knife down on the counter and wipes his hands on his apron. "So, what can I do for the Marshal's Service today?"

* * *

 

The nurse unwraps the blood pressure cuff from her arm and jots something in the file. She smiles at Winona. "Still a little elevated. I'm going to share this with the doctor since she's in. I'll be right back."

Winona leans her head back against the wall. Gayle is driving her nuts, bringing her food, throwing out name suggestions, and generally hovering until Winona wants to run screaming out of the house. She appreciates her sister taking her in, but she hates feeling obligated and dependent. She has some money from savings and, ironically, the payout from Gary's life insurance, since he'd never changed the beneficiary. Still, a lot of that is being eaten up by her health insurance and buying maternity clothes and things for the baby.

It's a long while before the nurse comes back, and she almost dozes off. "Dr. Delano wants a blood test to check a few things, if you roll up your sleeve I'll take the sample then she'd like to see you in her office."

Her heart beats faster and she's sure her blood pressure raises another degree. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm sure it is, Sweetie," the nurse says. "Let's just see what we can find out, okay?"

Winona rolls up her sleeve and turns her head, wincing at the prick of the needle.

The doctor walks in, Winona's chart in hand. "So, your blood pressure is a little higher than I like, but everything else looks good. Your weight is stable, the baby's heartbeat is strong. We'll see what the blood tests say." She takes the chair beside Winona rather than sitting at the desk across from her. "Aside from the pregnancy, are you under any new stresses?"

"Um..well.." She hesitates. She's never been one to share personal things. Her mama called it "airing dirty laundry" and had driven the point home to both her daughters that it simply wasn't done. But her doctor's quiet tone of concern and sympathy pushes Winona over the edge. She feels the tears start and with a mixture of shame and relief she tells the doctor everything; the break with Raylan, quitting her job, living with Gayle. She hates that it sounds like such a godawful soap opera plot, even to her ears.

"Sounds like you've got your hands full," Dr. Delano says. "Do you have anyone you can talk to?"

Winona shakes her head. "Not really."

"Your sister?"

"Maybe, if I wasn't living there," she says ruefully. "We're getting on each other's nerves."

The doctor nods. "Families can be like that."

Winona takes a tissue from the box on the desk and wipes her eyes. "It doesn't help that she hates Raylan."

The doctor steeples her hands and looks at Winona. "Why? He seems supportive."

"He is. We just...there's a lot of history there."

Dr. Delano goes around the desk and opens a drawer. Pulling out a card, she hands it to Winona. "It might help to talk things out with someone," she says. "This guy is good." She cocks her head, considering her words. "He does couples counseling, too, if that's something you're interested in. Even if you aren't together, it looks like he wants to be an active parent; so it might be worth thinking about. The stresses aren't going to go away when this baby is born."

Winona takes the card and glances at it before sliding it into the outside pocket of her purse. "Thank you," she says. She can't imagine Raylan agreeing to anything like the doctor suggests, and it's one thing they might actually agree on...the thought of telling a complete stranger about all of it doesn't really appeal to her, either.

"I want you to take it easy for a few days until we get these results back. I'm not putting you on bed rest, but nothing strenuous, okay?" Dr. Delano raises an eyebrow. "And no worrying. Worst case scenario we keep you on modified bed-rest until the BP comes down. This baby is going to be just fine."

Winona nods, her hand automatically going to her stomach, protective. Silently she promises her son she'll do whatever it takes to keep him safe, before he's born and after.


	5. Lunch and Dinner

Raylan steps up and leans on the scratched formica counter knowing that Tim will stay behind, always the alert shooter, positioned so that he has a clear view of both the interior of the diner and anyone who might come in. Limehouse's crew won't get the drop on them today. He readies his speech, prepared to tell Limehouse that he knows the information on Boyd's involvement in Devil's demise came from Noble's Holler, but before he can start in, Tim speaks up.

"The Marshal Service just wants to be certain you've severed your ties with organized crime, Mr. Limehouse. Not just out of our interests, but for your own protection. These are dangerous people."

Limehouse looks from Raylan to Tim and back again. "Severed my ties, huh? Where's your token African American woman what makes the Marshal Service look all politically correct? Deputy Brooks, wasn't it? I think I liked her better than this wet-behind the ears white boy you brought along today."

An earnest look appears on Tim's face and Raylan takes a deep breath and steels himself not to laugh at the bullshit the younger man is about to spew. "I assure you I was not trying to be funny, Mr. Limehouse. Raylan here tells me you're a man to be reckoned with and I respect his opinion, at least when it comes to Harlan County." He pulls a notepad out of his pocket. "Has anyone from Detroit contacted you?"

"Naw." Limehouse dips into a deep pan simmering on the stove and pulls out a hank of sauce-laden meat, slapping it onto a plate. "We can protect ourselves just fine. And that ain't why you're here." His brown eyes fixed back on Raylan. "I heard 'bout your daddy taken the fall for Devil on top of that poor Trooper. Kinda eats at ya, I'd bet. I'd bet you'd love to know who fingered Boyd in the first place. I about right?"

Shit. Raylan thinks. If he believed in mind-reading he'd bet his next paycheck Limehouse had 'the gift ' as his mama used to call it. He slides his hand along the brim of the hat and pulls it lower. "That information would be welcome, yes."

"It was Errol made that call."

Raylan nods. "At your behest."

Limehouse squints, and his teeth flash in a grin. He points at Raylan with the meat fork in his hand. "Now what would make you think such a thing?"

"Raylan tells me nothing much happens here in Noble's Holler without your knowledge and consent, so I'd say it's a pretty good guess," Tim says. "And I'd figure that a man like you, well, you probably aren't too fond of a man like Boyd Crowder."

"Heh," Limehouse laughs. "You're smarter than you look." He layers the meat onto two rolls adds a pile of sweet potato fries and coleslaw and slides the plates onto the counter. "Both you boys look hungry. Marshal Givens, you been here what...five, six times now and never tried my barbeque. I'm about to get offended." He sets a squeeze jar of sauce beside the plates and looks at them. "Eat up and who knows? I might feel like chattin' when you're done."

He disappears into the back, returning with three brown bottles covered with frost. Tim's already got his mouth around the sandwich, so Raylan speaks for them both. "We're on duty, so..."

"Homemade root beer," Limehouse says, popping the caps on an old-fashioned opener scewed into the counter. "Best in Kentucky, if'n you ask anyone around here. Though, as I remember, your Aunt Helen made some almost as good."

Raylan lifts the bottle and takes a tentitive sip. "Umm." He takes a longer swallow. "Tastes like summer."

"That it does," Limehouse agrees. "That it does." He looks at Tim, whose sandwich is disappearing rapidly. "That's good barbeque, ain't it?"

"Yessir," Tim mumbles, mouth full.

Raylan eats his sandwich a bit more slowly, but just as enthusiastically. "We should take some of this back for Art." Tim says, swallowing the last bite and wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"One to go?" Limehouse pulls out another bun and raises an eyebrow at Raylan.

"Better make it two, in case he gets hungry in the car," Raylan says. He drains the last of the root beer from the still ice cold bottle. "But we're not leavin' without that chat."

"Well now," Limehouse leans in, his round face inches from Raylan's. "I wouldn't be the kind of person folks confide in if I just let those confidences slip out. But, I reckon if you happened to mention a name'a someone who coulda been there when it all went down, I might not be able to hide my tell."

Tim turns to stare at him and Raylan's mind starts racing. Someone who coulda been there when it all went down. Who would've been there when Boyd killed Devil? Ava, maybe, but she'd never betray Boyd. Arlo? Could he be making up for letting information slip by taking the fall? The only other person who'da been there..." _Shit_. It's Johnny," Raylan says. "Johnny Crowder."

Limehouse sets two foil-wrapped packages on the counter, then he clinks his root beer bottle against Raylan's empty one, lifts it to his lips and finishes it off.

-o-o-O-o-o-

"So what did the doctor say? How's your blood pressure?"

Winona twirls more pasta onto her fork and pauses halfway to her mouth. "Still a little high. She's doing some blood work and she wants me to take it easy for a few days." She watches his expression grow pensive. "I'm fine, Raylan. The baby is fine. She said his heartbeat is strong."

He takes another bite of chicken and points at her. "You do what she said. Rest, okay?"

"I will." She takes a small piece of bread from the basket and runs it through the sauce on her plate. "Have you thought about names at all?"

There's a shrug, and then a grin. "You sure you don't like Felix?" He swallows the last of his beer and motions to the waiter for another.

She smiles back. "I was thinking Lucas. Luke. Do you like that?"

He nods. "I like that fine. But knowing you, you'll change your mind half a dozen times between now and when he's born."

"Maybe." She acknowledges.

He sets the bottle on the table and runs a finger around the rim, making it sing. "I do have one thing I been thinkin'."

"What's that?" She's enjoying this. They're getting along, not squabbling, not nervous...maybe they can be like this...maybe this can work. She feels some of the stress of the day evaporating.

"I'd like his middle name to be Arthur."

"Oh," she says, quiet. "I like that." It seems fitting, and she can't help but think that Art has been a larger, more constant presence in their lives than either of their families. They met him at Glynco when they were young and crazy in love and he's seen all sides of both of them, good and bad. "I think that's perfect. Lucas Arthur Givens. It sounds good, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I do." The waiter comes with Raylan's beer and refills Winona's water glass.

"Do you want dessert?"

Raylan raises an eyebrow. "There's chocolate cake. Wanna split it?"

She laughs. "Well, I don't have to worry about fitting into my clothes. I don't anyway. Sure." She knows he'll end up eating most of it.

He looks up at the waiter. "Can we get a scoop of vanilla ice cream on that?"

After dessert, they walk to her car in comfortable silence. This time he does hug her goodbye, and it's nice; warm and affectionate. "Go home and get some sleep," he says. "Don't let Gayle get on your nerves."

She laughs. "I'll try." Sliding behind the wheel she waves and turns the key in the ignition. There's a horrible grinding sound and nothing happens. She tries again, saying a silent prayer under her breath. Nothing. Shit. There's a rap on the window and she lowers it. At least that works.

"Let me try," Raylan says.

She gets out and stands with her arms crossed over her chest watching while he gets the exact same result. He gets out and slams the door. "You have worse luck with cars than anyone I know. When was the last time you had the oil changed or the car checked out?"

She feels her face flush. "Probably when you took it in."

"Winona, that was like...five months ago." He huffs in frustration.

"It's been running fine." She snaps, defensive. The mood of the evening has shifted, and not for the better.

He runs a hand through his hair and softens his tone. "I'll call Joe at the motor pool and have him come and tow it to the shop. I can drive you back to Louisville."

She knows he's tired. He's been to Harlan and back, it's already almost eight and Louisville and back is another three hours. "No, it's late. Just take me to the Hilton or Marriott. I'll stay here tonight and look into getting a car in the morning. Or Gayle can come get me."

"You really wanna stay at a hotel?"

"You got a better idea?"

He shrugs. "I got a bed and a couch. You can have the bed."

"Raylan, I..." she looks at his expression and stops. "You think that's a good idea?"

"Better than a hotel."

She's too exhausted to argue. Her feet hurt, she ate too much, and now she has to pee. "Alright," she sighs. "Take me home."


	6. Slumber Party

Raylan shoots a sideways glance at Winona as he pulls into the parking lot. Luckily, UK is on break and there's no live music or loud crowd tonight. Still, he imagines her reaction to his new accommodations is going to be less than enthusiastic. "Here we are."

Her eyes sweep the neon-lit entrance and shift upward to the grime-streaked narrow windows set into the wall. "I think I preferred the motel," she says, but at least she's half-smiling.

He pushes open the door and guides Winona in, one hand on her elbow. Tuesday is Randy's night, so he's surprised when Lindsay appears from behind the bar. "Evening, Marshal," she says. Her smile is as open and warm as always, but she looks Winona up and down and there's the glint of a question in her eyes.

"Lindsay." He drops his head and takes a breath to collect himself. "Lindsay, this is Winona, Winona, Lindsay."

"Nice to meet you." They both say it at the same time, polite and cool.

"It's this way," he says, turning toward the stairs. "'Night, Lindsay."

"Goodnight." She shuts the door to the bar with a sharp click.

He moves so Winona can start up ahead of him. "It's the first door on the right, just at the top of the stairs."

"How long have you been sleeping with her?"

He stops with his foot on the step, staring up at her back. How the hell does she do that? "Winona..."

Her head twists around, and the expression on her face is amusement, not anger. "Raylan, I left you. I didn't expect you'd become a monk."

"It's nothin' seri..."

"You don't owe me an explanation."

"You aren't mad?"

She laughs. "That'd be pretty silly, now, wouldn't it?"

He considers pointing out that he thinks this whole thing is pretty silly, but manages to bite back the words. At the top of the stairs he reaches past her, sliding the key into the lock and opening the door.

Winona peers in cautiously. "Wow. Two whole rooms."

"And a kitchen and a bathroom," Raylan says. It comes out more petulant than it sounded in his head.

"More like a kitchenette." Winona smirks at him. "But I'm more interested in the bathroom at the moment."

"Sorry it doesn't have a separate commode area." He flips on the light switch and shoots her an impish grin.

"That's alright. I'm not planning on moving in." She's quick with the retort, but her smile fades as she slips past him, shutting the door. He glances around the barren apartment. It's not much better than the motel, and it certainly isn't cleaned as often or very well. He hasn't been here enough to really notice but seeing it through her eyes he realizes that a coat of paint is needed, not to mention a chair, maybe some pillows for the couch. He sighs. It seems like a lot of effort, and for what?

"I like your photo gallery." She's back to smiling when she emerges from the bathroom a few moments later.

He's sitting on the bed, taking his boots off. Rolling the socks into a ball, he tosses them into the white plastic laundry basket in the corner. "Yeah, well...the place needed a little somethin'."

"And I bet ultra-sound photos on the bathroom mirror really make an impression on your guests." She cocks her head, studying him. He must look chagrined, because she adds "I think it's sweet." Stifling a yawn she eases down on the bed beside him. "I'm kinda glad I'm not driving back to Gayle's. I'm exhausted."

"You tell the doctor about that?"

She nods. "It's normal. She said I should get my energy back here in a couple of weeks." She kicks her shoes off and lays back, stretching out and resting her hands on her stomach. "It's strange to think of him swimming around in there."

"Doin' somersaults and back flips?" He grins down at her. She moves one hand and he places his own flat over the small swell. He's curious. "Can you feel 'im?"

"Sometimes it feels all fluttery, like there's a hummingbird in there." She yawns again and her eyes blink closed.

"You gonna sleep in your clothes?"

She doesn't open her eyes. "I don't have anything else. I'll just have to be rumpled tomorrow."

"Here," He reaches into the closet and pulls a shirt off the hanger. "This work?" He tosses it to her.

"Thanks." She pushes up from the bed and disappears into the bathroom. When she comes back out it's like stepping back in time to the motel, when she walked around in nothing but his shirt every night. And he can't help noticing the way her breasts fill out the shirt now, her long, still slim legs sticking out from underneath.

She crawls into the bed and pulls up the covers.

He leans in the doorway. "The Reds are playin'. Will it bother you if I watch some of the game?"

She shakes her head. "Go ahead. I don't think a train wreck could keep me awake."

"Alright then, g'night."

"Good night, Raylan," she says. "And thank you. For dinner...and...everything."

"No problem. Get some sleep."

-o-o-o-o-

When she first opens her eyes, she's disoriented for a moment. Then it all comes back. She's in Raylan's apartment, above the bar. The disembodied light from the television dances across the wall, casting odd shadows. She slips out of bed and walks carefully out through the tiny living room. He's sprawled on the couch, one leg dangling. The blanket has slipped off, pooling on the floor, and she picks it up, throwing it over him. He doesn't stir. Leaving the tv on for the light, she glances around the kitchenette and finds a glass. She fills it with water from the tap and sips, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath.

Silently she crosses back to the bathroom. If she goes now, maybe she won't wake up again later. When she slips back into bed his voice comes soft. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, go on back to sleep." The curtains billow at the window and a car passes the bar, its red taillights dancing in the glass. A return to sleep evades her, and she sighs, rolling over to the cool side of the bed.

"Can't sleep?"

"No. You either?"

She hears him moving and the light from the television goes off. "Nope."

"What time is it?"

"About four." He's standing by the bed, so close she can feel the heat rolling off his skin. It would be so easy to reach out and touch him, but she doesn't.

The bed sinks with his weight as he sits. He doesn't say anything. One hand lowers and strokes her hair, slowly, running his fingers through from the crown to her shoulders. "Raylan..."

"Shhh. Go back to sleep." He keeps stroking, and it feels so comforting that she gives in. She rolls on her side, and he stretches out beside her. Tugging at his hand, she wraps his arm around her and settles against him. The last thing she feels is his fingers, warm on the soft skin of her stomach, as she drifts into sleep.

-o-o-O-o-o-

She's awake, he can tell from her breathing. Neither of them has moved. She's still pressed close to him, his arm slung across her, his hand under the shirt resting on the small mound of baby. Slim fingers cover his. He's not sure what this means, or if it means anything at all.

Pale light is starting to peek through the edges of the blinds, but he doesn't ease up to glance at the clock. "You awake?" Her voice is low and raspy with sleep.

"Yeah."

She sighs, but doesn't move away or turn around to face him. He wonders if she's as unwilling to break this unexpected connection as he is. He doesn't care if he's late for work. He'd lay here all day if he thought they could get away with it. Moving his hand, he links his fingers through hers, rubbing his thumb over her palm in slow circles. "I could call in sick," he whispers.

He feels her smile. "And do what? Stay in bed like this all day?"

"Would that be so bad?"

She turns her head. "I wish..."

"It doesn't have to be just a wish," he says, sounding more exasperated than he means to.

Pushing up to a sitting positon she gazes down at him. "This doesn't...we don't work, Raylan. I know you love me...I love you, too...but...we can't..."

He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. "But...but what Winona? Maybe we can work it out...I told you I'd talk to Art about Glynco again."

"We've been over this." Her voice takes on the patient tone he imagines she'll use with their child one day. "You had weeks, almost a month, after you were shot to talk to Art about Glynco and you didn't. It's okay...I get it...you don't really want to go. You'd be doing it for me and you'd end up resenting me for it. I don't want that. But you couldn't even take one afternoon off to look at houses?"

"I'm gonna take a shower." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, but she grabs his shoulder.

"Wait." She wraps her arms around him from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. "This was good. Last night...dinner...being here...let's not ruin it. Let's just let it be and..."

"And what...live in some kind of limbo?"

She stiffens, but doesn't release him. "You're not in limbo. You're free to do what you want with whoever you want. I didn't get mad about..."

"And you're really okay with that?" He snorts. "I'm not sure how to take that."

In a familiar motion, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't love her."

"That makes it okay?"

She shrugs. "I guess maybe it does."

"But it would bother you if I did."

She flushes. "Well, sure...I mean..."

"I'm taking a shower." He feels her eyes on his back as he peels off his t-shirt and drops it on the floor on his way into the bathroom.

"Raylan..."

"Just let it go, Winona."


	7. Wheels Go 'Round

"Johnny Crowder, huh?" Art tips the chair back and links his fingers behind his head and keeps his eyes on Raylan. "You really think he'd double cross Boyd?"

Raylan slides a hand across his mouth. "Well, Johnny double-crossed Bo to Boyd...told him about that shipment from Miami."

"And got himself shot by Bo for his trouble," Art says. "He's in a wheelchair now, isn''t he?"

"Yeah. From what I know, he can walk a bit, but not much. He mostly uses the chair."

"S'pose he might blame Boyd for bein' in that chair?"

"Might." Raylan nods.

Art sets the chair down and rests his elbows on the desk. "What other motivation would he have for settin' Boyd up like that? Would he want control of things in Harlan?"

"I doubt it. Johnny's not like Devil. He's never been all that ambitious. Or that stupid. But I know somethin' else Boyd has that he might want."

Art seems puzzled for a moment, then raises an eyebrow. "Ava?" He snorts. "Is there anybody down in Harlan doesn't have a thing for that woman?"

"It's a small town and she's a pretty lady."

"See if you can get him in here. Tell him it's a follow-up on Tom Bergen's shooting."

"Alright."

They stand and Art comes around to the front of the desk. He picks up an apple and takes a bite, talking around it. "You goin' to the arraignment tomorrow?"

His boss's tone is light, but his eyes are concerned. "I thought I would," Raylan says. He's not sure why it seems important to go, and decides it's more about respect for Tom Bergan than concern for Arlo. Arlo's defense attorney has called him three times and he's yet to return the call.

"I'm gonna go, too. We can ride down together." It doesn't sound like a suggestion. Art glances down at a file on his desk and Raylan's been dissmissed.

"I'll get on Johnny and let you know when he's comin' in."

Raylan settles in his chair about to pick up the phone and make that call down to Harlan when Tim appears, laying a pink message slip on the desk and smirking at him. "Joe from the motor pool called and left a message for you. Said the Toyota has a bad starter. He'd have to order the part, wants you to call him." He raises an eyebrow at Raylan. "When'd you start drivin' a Toyota? Thought you were a 'Made in America' guy."

"Most Toyota's are made in America, right over in Georgetown, as a matter of fact," Raylan says. "It's Winona's. It wouldn't start the other night so I had Joe come and get it. I'd better go down there and talk to him." He grabs the hat and slips into his jacket, ignoring Tim's inquisitive gaze as he heads for the elevators.

His phone buzzes as he heads for the motor pool garage and he answers without looking at the number, expecting it's Winona. "Hello."

"Marshal Givens?" A female voice. Not Winona. "This is Katherine Phillips, I'm your father's attorney." She continues talking too quickly for him to get a word in. "Glad I caught you. I've been trying to reach you. We need to set up a time to talk."

Sighing, he stops walking and speaks low into the phone so no one can overhear. "No, we don't Miss..."

"Phillips," she says. "And it's obvious the relationship between you and your father is strained but surely you can see he isn't in control..."

"I don't care." Raylan's voice is sharp, menacing. "A good man is dead. Arlo did what he did and he should pay for it. His mind was clear enough to know what he was doin' and why. He told you so himself."

"Marshal Givens, I think I'd still like to.."

"We're done here." He pushes the 'End Call' button and leans against the wall.

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan holds the door open and lets Johnny wheel himself into the conference room ahead of him. He notices the muscles in Johnny's arms and shoulders are more developed, and he's manuvering the chair with more ease, still, it can't be easy. Raylan feels a wave of unexpected sympathy for his old teammate.

Pulling out a chair for himself, he sits and opens the folder, taking out several pictures of the layout of the bar parking lot the day of Tom Bergen's shooting. He spreads them on the table in full view. Since Tom Bergen's death is the pretext of getting Johnny in here, he figures he'd better keep up the charade for a bit before segueing over to Devil.

"What's this all about now, Raylan? I told them officers what I saw the night it happened."

"You want some coffee?"

Johnny shakes his head. "No, I want to get this shit over with and get on back down to Harlan."

Raylan takes his time, flipping through the pages, acting as if he's familiarizing himself with Johnny's original statement, even though he has it practically memorized. After a few minutes and several sighs of impatience from Johnny he looks up. "Says here you fingered Quarles as the shooter."

"I thought he was. I never seen Arlo. I'd swear to that." Johnny shakes his head. "He needs someone to testify..."

"I don't care about that. I'm sure his lawyer will be callin' you, if she hasn't already." Raylan watches the other man's face, but it gives nothing away. He asks a few more questions taking Johnny back over the events leading up to the explosion and has him point out on the photographs where he, Boyd, Quarles, and Bergen were when shots were fired. "Alright then," Raylan says, closing the folder.

"That's it? Am I done here?" Johnny says, starting to back the chair up. "I'm sure I'll be seein' ya, Raylan."

"One more thing," Raylan says. "We got some ballistics back and it's funny...none of the guns we pulled from Arlo's matches the bullet that killed Devil."

Johnny shrugs. "He probably ditched it."

"Could be." Raylan nods. "But then, there's that phone call fingerin' Boyd." He pulls another paper from the file and runs his finger down the list until he finds what he's looking for. "Came from Nobles Holler. According to Elliston Limehouse, it was Errol made that call."

Johnny runs his tongue across his bottom lip and blinks. "Errol. He the guy who came around with Dickie? Didn't he get himself shot?"

"That he did."

"Too bad. Guess you'll never know where he got his information." Johnny chuckles. "Or misinformation."

"See, that's the thing," Raylan leans forward on the conference table. "I don't think it was misinformation. Mind you, I've got no sympathy for Arlo. Arlo's goin' to prison and that's what he deserves for murdering a law enforcement officer. But he didn't kill Devil Ellis. You know that as well as I do."

"How would I know who killed Devil?"

"Come on now, Johnny," Raylan says. "You and Devil were both part of Boyd's crew. All of ya practically livin' together in Arlo's house." He pulls another sheet of paper from the file. "And Devil's cell phone records show quite a few calls to your cell phone. Right up until the day they stop. And we all know why he stopped callin'." He slides the sheet close enough that Johnny can see the highlighted numbers. "What were you two talkin' about? Devil thinkin' he wasn't gettin' enough? He want to move in on Boyd...or... hell, maybe even take Boyd out?" Raylan shakes his head. "He always did have...what is it they say...'delusions of grandeur'?"

Johnny's fingers twitch nervously on the handles of the chair. "I don't know anything. And if I did..."

"You wouldn't tell me." Raylan finishes.

"Whatcha gonna do? You gonna throw me outta this chair again like you done down in Harlan. I should sue your ass for police brutality."

"Well, now, you'd need a reputable witness for that. Or some visible injuries." Raylan lowers his voice. "I think I know what happened here, Johnny."

"Alright then, Columbo...go ahead...you're so smart. Tell me what happened."

"Columbo wore a raincoat. McCloud was the Marshal with the hat, but I'll let that slide."

"He rode a horse, too, didn't he? That's what you need, Raylan, a big white horse."

He laughs. "Here's what I think. I think Devil got it in his fool head that he could run things better than Boyd. Hell, maybe he had someone backin' him up...there's a few calls on his cell we can't trace yet, but Tim out there is workin' on it. Anyway...Devil's got this idea and he comes to you."

"Me?" Johnny laughs. "He'd have to be pretty damn stupid to do that, Raylan. You know for most of us grew up down in Harlan, present company excluded, blood is thicker than just about anythin'."

"Even when blood put you in a chair? Took away your legs and God knows what else?" Raylan flips through the file again, pulling out another sheet of paper. "Here I thought Boyd got the bar back for you, seein' as it was your bar and partly his fault you lost it...but I got a copy of the deed right here and you know whose name is on it? Can you read that for me?" He slides the paper across to Johnny.

"I know damn well what that says." He angrily shoves the paper back at Raylan. "It's just a piece of paper. It's my damn bar."

Raylan shakes his head. "No, not legally it ain't. Boyd could put you out at anytime and you'd have what? Nothin'. You blew your house up for him...what'd you get for that, Johnny?"

Johnny's face reddens and he points a long finger at Raylan. "You wait just a minute. Boyd is my blood kin. He'll do right by me." His chin goes up, defiant. "Besides, I ain't stupid. Double-crossin' Boyd'd be signin' my own death warrant."

"Um hmm," Raylan murmurs. "That's what I'm thinkin' happened to Devil. But I think you already know that. So..." He closes the folder and rests a hand on top of it. "You'd better hope Boyd isn't figurin' things out just like I did."

Johnny's mouth twists into a thin line.

"You're free to go," Raylan says. "But if you think of anythin' you mighta left out of our conversation, you give me a call. We got a history, you and I, and hell, all of it ain't bad. You wanna talk about Boyd and what he's done, I'll do right by you, Johnny, blood or no blood."


	8. Let's Talk Therapy

"What's this?" As Winona watches, he turns the card she gave him over in his hand, squinting to read the small script.

"He's a therapist." She chews on her lip, then automatically wipes lipstick from her teeth with a finger. "Dr. Delano referred him to me."

He stares at her, incredulous. "You're goin' to a shrink?"

She turns her back to the window facing out into the Marshal's office and shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweater. "The doctor thought it might help with the stress. The blood tests all came back normal, so she thinks that's probably what's causing my elevated blood pressure."

"You've got stress?" He chuckles, shaking his head.

"Yes, Raylan, I've got stress." She sighs. She knows he's going to have an argument for whatever she says about the difficulties of not having a job and living with Gayle. He figures she brought this stress on herself, and he thinks he knows just how to alleviate it. As if life with Raylan Givens would ever be stress-free, even at Glynco or, she suspects, if he was selling ice cream.

"Dr. Delano says he's really good and he does couples' counseling, too."

"Too bad we aren't a couple."

"Jesus, Raylan..." She picks her purse up off the conference table and shifts it onto her shoulder. "Do you have a car for me or not? Just give me the keys." She holds out her hand.

He cocks his head and narrows his eyes at her. "What? You want me to go to counseling? Like it isn't bad enough I have to see the department shrink every time there's a shooting?"

"That must keep him busy."

He shakes his head, one hand on his hip. "Thanks, that's nice."

"Keys?"

"Now you're mad?"

"It's just the same old thing, Raylan." She huffs out a breath. Whenever she asks him for something, even when it's perfectly reasonable, she always ends up feeling like a bitch.

"What in the hell does that mean?"

Okay, she thinks, he's asking for it. "You go to the department shrink because you have to, right? If you didn't they'd suspend you or put you on desk duty or something like that."

"Well, yeah."

"So, you'll do it for your _job_...but not for me...for us."

"There is no us, Winona." He leans back against the table and crosses his arms over his chest, staring at the floor. "You've made that perfectly clear."

"There'll always be an 'us'. We're going to have a child together. Maybe we can at least learn how to get along."

He closes his eyes and rubs his hand across his jaw. "Okay."

She's not sure she heard him right. "Okay? You'll go?"

"I'll go. But..." He gestures at her with his thumb and forefinger pressed together and lowers his voice to a hiss. "I am not talkin' about Arlo or my childhood or Harlan or any of that shit with some stranger."

Or with anyone else, she thinks. "Why would I bring any of that up?"

He shrugs. "Just don't."

"I won't."

There's a knock on the glass and Tim holds up a file and taps his watch. "I gotta go," Raylan says. "We've got a prisoner transfer this afternoon." He fishes a key ring out of his pocket. "It's a dark blue Lexus. It's parked next to the Lincoln. I signed it out so be careful. Joe said your car should be done by day after tomorrow."

"Okay, thank you," she says. She looks down and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "So, do you want me to call and make an appointment for us?"

He sighs. "Make the appointment and let me know. I'll be there."

-o-o-O-o-o-

He's at his usual stool on the end of the bar closest to the door where he can keep an eye on things. There's a local country-blues band playing tonight and they're pretty good. People are dancing and all of the pool tables are busy. Between students returning early from break and three or four tables full of what must be the band's entourage, there's a nice crowd for a weeknight. Tracey was late for her shift and Lindsay has been too busy to do much more than shoot him a glance as she refills his whiskey.

"Hey there," she says finally, stopping in front of him and leaning her elbows on the bar. "I sure hope I don't have to fire her." She hooks a thumb in Tracey's direction. "She's a good worker when she's here, but this is the third time she's been late in the last two weeks."

The hat is low on his head and he doesn't look at her. "About the other night..."

Lindsay's laughter bubbles and when he glances up her eyes are twinkling. She shakes her head. "I knew you were gonna start right out apologizing." She takes his glass, raising an eyebrow. When he nods, she refills it and sets it back down in front of him.

"Well, I figure I owe you..."

"Stop." She holds up a hand. "You don't owe me anything. We had some fun." She shrugs. "I take it that was your baby-mama the other night? She want you back?"

He takes a gulp of the whiskey and sets the glass down too hard. "I don't know _what_ she wants."

Lindsay tilts her head, blonde hair brushing her shoulder. "Well...she did come home with you. That should be a clue."

He shakes his head. "It's not like it was her idea...or mine. Her car broke down. And nothin' happened. We just ended up havin' the usual argument."

"Which is?" She says. When he doesn't respond she adds, "None of my business."

"My job."

"Uh huh. She doesn't like it."

"That's an understatement." The glass is empty, but when Lindsay nods toward the bottle he remembers that Art is picking him up at six-thirty to head down to Harlan for Arlo's arraignment. He shakes his head. "I got an early mornin'."

"So she loves you," Lindsay observes, "but she hates your job." She sets a glass of water in front of him. "You ever think of doin' somethin' else?"

"I _like_ my job."

"But you love her." Two stools next to him empty and she picks up the glasses and swipes a rag across the bar. "And there's the baby."

"I like my job," he repeats, sipping the water and wishing he'd taken her up on the refill. "I like chasing down fugitives, and I'm good at it."

Lindsay glances up at the bullet hole in the ceiling and smiles. "I'd say sometimes they chase you down."

"Heh, well. I still get 'em." He takes the hat off and runs his hands through his hair. "No matter what happens with Winona, I wanna be a good father to this baby. I had a pretty lousy one myself."

"Mine took off when I was three. Mama raised me and my two brothers on her own. Didn't do a half-bad job with Rich and me. Denny, well...I don't think havin' a daddy woulda made any difference at all."

"Mighta been better for us if Arlo had taken off."

"He still alive, your daddy?"

"Yeah." He doesn't offer more, and she doesn't ask.

"I don't know much about it myself, but I'd think that wanting to be a good parent would be a start."

"I hope you're right." He reaches for his wallet and lays a couple bills on the counter. "I'd better go try and get some sleep."

"This is their last set," Lindsay says. "They usually slow it down some so it shouldn't be too noisy up there."

"G'night, Lindsay."

""Night, Raylan. You take care."


	9. Dazed and Confused

Raylan is surprised to see Rachel riding shotgun when Art pulls up in front of the bar the next morning. He opens the door to get in the back, but she slides out.

"You go ahead and sit up front. With those long legs of yours I'd just be feeling guilty taking up all the space." She slips past him into the back seat.

"Mornin'" he says to Art as he slides in. There's a box of doughnuts on the console and he helps himself to a cream-filled. "You want a doughnut?" He holds the box up, but Rachel shakes her head.

"No, thanks."

"Good morning to you, too," Art says. "Coffee for you, right there. Couple-a packs of sugar and some cream, too." He turns the wheel and steers out into the early morning traffic, blinking against the sunshine.

"Thanks," he says around another bite of doughnut.

Art glances in the rearview mirror. "You got that file for Raylan to take a look at?"

Rachel hands a thin file over the seat back.

Raylan opens the folder and looks over the first page. "Devil's autopsy?"

"Yeah. Take a look. He was shot in the chest. That woulda killed him eventually but it mighta taken awhile. It wouldn't have been pleasant."

"Sucking chest wounds rarely are." He finishes the doughnut and licks his fingers.

"Keep readin'. It looks like someone did him a favor."

Raylan flips through the file. "Hmmm. Shot him right between the eyes," he says. "Mercy shot?"

"Sure looks like it to me. That sound like Arlo to you?"

Raylan shakes his head. "Nope." He sighs. "Sounds like someone else, though. Devil was a friend. Boyd would probably do it out of some kind of code of honor." He snorts.

"That's what I thought. Hey, grab me a doughnut, wouldja? That one there with the sprinkles'll do just fine."

Rachel leans as far forward as the seat belt will allow. "Art thinks some of the details might have slipped by Arlo, if he was even there when Devil was killed. He wants me to talk to him, ask him to go over exactly what happened."

"I thought usin' Rachel might be worth a try," Art says, mouth full of doughnut. "You're obviously not a candidate, and I'm not sure I'd do much better. If his version leaves out the head shot, maybe we can get his confession thrown out, bring suspicion back onto Crowder."

Raylan sips the coffee and reaches for another doughnut. "You think Arlo's defense attorney'll let her talk to 'im? She seems pretty sharp for a PD."

"Already called her. Arraignment's at nine, she said they'll have him at the courthouse by eight or a little past. We can have a few minutes then, or wait until after."

"After'd give you more time."

"But before would give us something to hand to the prosecutor, maybe get the charges related to Devil dismissed right off the bat," Rachel says. "I think I'll have a doughnut after all."

Raylan grabs the box and passes it back to her. He wonders if Boyd will be at the arraignment and what his reaction might be if Arlo's confession to Devil's murder gets tossed. He'd love to see the look on his face. "I say we try to talk to him before."

"That'd be my choice." Art's foot presses a little harder on the accelerator.

-o-o-O-o-o-

Raylan stares through the glass as Rachel sits down across from Arlo and his attorney. The woman looks better, more polished and professional than she did that day in the Marshal's office, but the same can't be said for Arlo. The defiance and arrogance is gone. His father looks diminished, scared even. The orange jumpsuit hangs on his thin frame and he needs a shave. Still, he smiles at Rachel, always the charmer.

"Wish I could hear what they're sayin'."

Art nods. "You'n me both." He leans against the wall, sipping his coffee.

Rachel speaks, then Arlo. Rachel makes some notes and speaks again. Arlo shakes his head. The lawyer leans in and whispers something in Arlo's ear, getting an angry response. Arlo points a finger at Rachel, his mouth curling into the sneer Raylan is all too familiar with.

"You don't read lips, do ya?" Art asks hopefully.

"Unfortunately, no."

Rachel is talking again, and this time she pulls a paper from the file, turning it so Arlo and Ms. Phillips can read it and pointing to a line with one finger. Arlo looks up, confusion on his face, and the attorney smiles.

"Bingo!" says Art. "I think we got 'im."

-o-o-O-o-o-

There's no sign of Boyd, Ava, or Johnny in the courtroom. Raylan is disappointed, not just for himself, but surprisingly for Arlo.

Art must share the sentiment. He leans over and whispers. "Take the fall for a guy on a murder rap, seems like he at least oughta show up to support you."

Arlo's eyes search the crowd as he's led in, lingering for a moment on Raylan. The corners of his mouth turn up and he shrugs a shoulder. Raylan sighs and fiddles with the hat in his lap. His silenced cell-phone vibrates and he pulls it out. There's a text from Winona.

_will next thurs @ 2 work?_

It takes him a moment to remember what she's talking about. The therapist. Great. He can hardly wait. He texts back a 'yes' and shoves the phone back into his pocket. Art taps him on the arm and points to a sign next to the judge's bench: ABSOLUTELY NO CELL PHONE ACTIVITY IN THE COURTROOM. He shakes a finger at Raylan and laughs.

Rachel slides into the seat next to Raylan. "Arlo never mentioned the head shot and seemed surprised. He tried to backtrack and say it just slipped his mind, but it's pretty clear he didn't know anything about it. The defense attorney is going to ask for the charges pertaining to Devil Ellis' murder to be dismissed based on Arlo's obvious lack of information about the details of the crime."

"That's great," Art says. "Good job."

"But," Rachel says, giving Raylan a wary glance, "She's also going to ask for a complete psych evaluation. From what I saw in there, Arlo goes from lucid to dazed and confused in the space of a couple of minutes."

"You sure he's not fakin'? Or just off his bi-polar meds? Helen had an awful time gettin' him to take 'em. I'd imagine with her gone he's not takin' 'em at all."

He can tell she's weighing her words before she says anything else. "My grandmother; my mama's mother; had dementia. Mama called it 'hardening of the arteries', but it's all the same thing. It looks to me like your father's in the early stages, but...I'd say there's a good chance he's not competent to stand trial." She meets his eyes. "I think you need to be prepared for the judge to see it the same way."

"Well shit."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Don't worry. I'm not gonna go on a shooting rampage," Raylan says, breaking the uneasy silence in the car as they head back toward Lexington. "Or take Arlo poisoned jam-cake on Visitor's Day. Although, that is a thought."

Art slides his eyes toward him, relaxing when he sees the half-grin on Raylan's face. "At least they're keepin' him at County until they can get a psych to do the eval."

"I can't believe she thought she could call her client incompetent and then turn around and ask for him to be released on his own recognizance." Rachel makes a disgusted sound at the back of her throat. "That's just a total contradiction."

"That's a lawyer for ya."

"An incompetent one."

"Nothing more than he deserves."

"It's probably safer for him to be in jail anyways," Art says.

Raylan raises an eyebrow.

"Not because of you, because of Boyd. Say somethin' happened to Arlo before the psych eval? Well, there's your reasonable doubt should Boyd ever be brought up on Devil's murder."

Raylan stares out the window as the mountains recede into the distance. When he left Harlan all those years ago with Helen's gift of freedom in his pocket, he felt the weight of his past, the millstone of being Arlo's son, the burden of his mother's pain, all of it, slip from his shoulders. Since his return to Kentucky, it's slowly settled back down on him and today it presses even more heavily than before. He leans his head back, tips the hat down, and tries to sleep.


	10. Regarding Henry

Raylan looks back at the scrawled numbers on the slip of paper as he drives slowly down the street glancing at the addresses posted above doorways and on porch posts. The street is one of the long, wide throughfares connecting downtown to the UK campus, with deep tree lawns and old southern-style houses lining both sides of the street. It's obvious that some are now divided into apartments, more likely for older, more discriminating grad students or teaching assistants. The address on the card matches a pristine white two-story with green shutters and a screened-in porch that wraps around the front and down one side. Winona's car is parked against the curb.

He picks up the hat off the seat, sets it down, then picks it up again. "Aw, hell," he says, slapping it on his head. He mounts the steps and pulls open the door with a creak. A sign hangs at eye level next to the front door. Please have a seat. Don't ring the bell. Thank you.

Glancing around, he spots Winona sitting in a wicker swing at the other end of the porch. He walks by several chairs clustered in pairs around small tables and joins her. "This the waitin' room?"

"I guess." She smiles up at him. "It's different. I like it."

"What? No stacks of outdated magazines? I'm disappointed."

She points to a basket beside one of the chairs. A sign hanging from it says 'Take one, leave one. Enjoy.' "There's books and magazines in there."

"Books?" He takes a seat on the swing beside her. "I hope that's not an indicator of how long the wait's gonna be."

She sighs. "I know you don't want to be here and I..."

"But I am, ain't I?" He stands abruptly, making the swing wobble. He paces back and forth in front of her and huffs out a breath. "You don't want to be here either."

"You're right. I don't really like the idea of talking about all of this."

"Then why are we here, Winona?"

She pushes with her toes and sets the swing in motion. "I don't know what else to do." Her shoulders rise and fall and she leans her head back, closing her eyes and laying a hand on the bulge of her belly. "I'm tired of fighting with you. I don't want him growing up with parents who argue every time they see each other."

"We weren't doin' that bad."

Her blue eyes fix on his. "So you're happy with the way things are?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Well, no, but it's not like you're gonna come ba..."

A door he hadn't noticed at the corner of the porch opens and a tall man in jeans and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up approaches. His hair and mustache are brown spackled with grey, and wire-rimmed glasses perch on his hawk-like nose. He holds out a broad hand. "I'm Henry Schafer," he says, smiling. "You must be Raylan." His handshake is firm and he meets Raylan's eyes. "And this must be Winona. Sarah Delano referred you?"

"Yes, " Winona says. She gets up too quickly and sways for a moment. Raylan grabs her elbow to steady her.

"Good doctor."

"Yes, she is."

"Follow me and we'll get started," Henry says. Instead of heading in the house, he leads them out the same door he just came in. They follow him along a brick path banked on both sides by flowers in various stages of bloom. "My wife teaches botany at the university. This is her laboratory." He laughs. The path curves and they come to a small building. "This was the original summer kitchen. I put in the windows on the east wall and made it into my office."

The office is small, but airy with the windows open to the breeze. There's a large oak desk, with two chairs in front of it, but he points to a corner sitting area with a couch and several more chairs in some kind of muted flower pattern that almost matches the garden outside. "Coffee?" He asks. "There's iced tea or lemonade as well."

They both decline. Winona is nervous, twisting her hair around a finger as she takes a seat on the couch. Raylan has to fight the urge to grab her by the hand and make a run for it. Instead, he forces himself to sit down beside her.

Henry smiles again as he sets his coffee down and eases his long frame into one of the chairs. There's a clipboard on the table and he picks it up, taking a pen from his shirt pocket. "So," he says, looking at them in turn. "What do you want?"

-o-o-O-o-o-

Winona is still thinking when Raylan speaks.

"What do I _want_?" He snorts. "What kind of question is that?"

If Henry is surprised by Raylan's reaction it doesn't show. "Human beings are pretty simple, really," he says. "We do things because they bring us pleasure, or, if unpleasant, they hold the promise of bringing us pleasure later. Since in all likelihood coming here and paying money to talk to a stranger doesn't bring you pleasure, there has to be some reward you're looking for as a result. So...what do you want? What's at the end of this dark tunnel of self-revelation?"

The muscles in Raylan's jaw twitch. "I want us to stop fighting all the time," Winona says quickly, jumping in to avoid a possible angry outburst.

"We don't fight all the time." Raylan sighs. "We don't even see each other enough to fight."

"I see from the paperwork that you two aren't currently living together, correct?"

"No, we're not," Winona says. "I'm living with my sister."

"Who drives her crazy, by the way." He looks at Winona. "Maybe Gayle's the one who should be here."

"Oh, for God's sake, Raylan."

Henry looks at both of them, face still passive, but his eyes are bright the way Raylan's are sometimes when he's talking about a case. She gets the feeling Henry likes his job. He crosses his legs and fixes his gaze on Raylan. "What do you want?" He asks again.

Raylan looks down, fiddling with the hat in his hands. The discomfort radiates off him in waves, and she feels a pang of guilt for asking him to come here.

"I want what I thought I _had_ before she took off and left me a three-line note," he says. His voice is hard, quiet, his eyes focused on the hat in his lap.

"And what did you think you had?"

"Look, this is _bullshit_ ," Raylan says.

"Okay, let's leave it at that for now." Henry sets down the clipboard and steeples his hands. "You say you want to stop fighting." He looks at Winona. "What do you fight about?"

Raylan beats her to it. "My job. She hates my job."

"I don't hate your job, Raylan, it's just the way it..." She presses her thumbs against her temples trying to quell the beginnings of a headache. "...it consumes you."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"How so?" Henry leans forward eyes on hers, ignoring Raylan's comment, his posture encouraging her to continue.

"He's just..."

"Tell _him_ , not me. Talk to him."

She folds her hands in her lap and takes a deep breath. "I know your job has odd hours, long hours sometimes. That's not the problem. It's just...even if you're with me...when you're thinking about work, which is pretty much all the time, you just aren't there. It's like you don't even see me...unless you want..."

"What? Unless I want what? Sex?" He huffs out a breath. "As I recall you've never objected. In fact, you were usually pretty enthusiastic." Raylan pushes up from the couch and walks to the window.

"Why wouldn't I be?" She shrugs. "I like sex. And besides, sometimes it's the only way to feel close to you."

His shoulders slump and he shoves his hands in his pockets. "Well, none of that matters anymore, does it?"

Henry's voice is soft. "Why doesn't it matter? If this is really what you want, if _she's_ what you really want, then it does matter."

"She's already gone."

"Looks to me like she's right here."

Raylan pivots then, his eyes searching her face so intently that she flushes. "You sayin' there's a chance for us?" He shakes his head. "What? You gonna change your mind _again_?" Raylan's always been good at hiding his emotions, except for anger, but now for just an instant, she sees the hurt there in his eyes and it's like a slap in the face.

"Raylan...I..."

"What? Why are we here, Winoa? Why did you drag me into this? If it's just to stop the fighting I think we can manage that on our own."

She can't help rolling her eyes. "Yeah, because we've done such a great job of it so far."

Now Henry's gaze shifts back at her. "What do you want?" He asks again. "Really."

"I told you," she shifts uncomfortably and uncrosses her legs. "I want to stop arguing. I want us to be able to get along."

"That's all?" Henry raises an eyebrow skeptically. "There's really nothing else you're hoping to accomplish here?"

She feels a rush of heat and a bead of sweat trickles down the back of her neck. She lifts her hair, pulling it to one side and twisting it nervously around a finger. Both men look at her expectantly. She stares down at her lap, at the soft bulge showing under her shirt and thinks about raising this child alone. She knows she can do it. Millions of women do it. She has Gayle and Raylan won't abandon his child or her like some men do. But it isn't what she _wants_. It isn't what she was hoping for that morning when she told him about the baby. _What do you want?_ She swallows, her mouth dry. "I want us to be a family." She forces it out in a whisper.

Raylan stares at her for a long moment. "Jesus Christ, Winona." He sinks down onto the couch beside her, elbows on his knees, the heels of his hands pressed to his forehead. "Jesus-fucking-Christ."

-o-o-O-o-o-

"Marshal Givens...Raylan...wait just a moment, would you?"

Raylan pauses with one hand on the doorframe and watches Winona walk purposefully down the sidewalk and around the porch, disappearing at the corner of the house. She doesn't look back. He turns back to Henry Schafer. The man is holding sheaf of papers and looking at Raylan over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses like a disgruntled professor.

"You left quite a lot of holes in your personal history on my form."

"Yeah, well...it's personal." Raylan says. He hears a car engine gunning on the street. She always does that. No wonder her car breaks down all the time. The tires screech as she pulls away. Damn it, he'd wanted a word with her. A private word.

"I understand that there may be things in your past you're reluctant to discuss."

"Good. Then we understand each other."

Henry keeps his eyes leveled on Raylan's. "I can't force you to tell me anything, of course. But just know that sometimes...usually...the things we don't want to talk about are the things we need to talk about the most."

"I don't need to talk about anything."

He slips his glasses off and rubs the bridge of his nose. "So none of what we talked about in there is helpful to you?"

"All that happened is she's pissed off at me. Again."

"She revealed something to you and your reaction was anger."

Raylan dips his head, hiding under the hat. "I don't like bein' jerked around."

"You think that's what she's doing?"

He doesn't, not really, but instead of answering Henry, he just shrugs.

"When someone has hurt us, it's hard to trust again," Henry says.

Raylan sighs. "How can I apologize when she never tells me what I did?"

"I wasn't talking about _her_ not trusting _you_ ," Henry says with a smile. "I'll see you next week."

_  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many thanks to MSBrooklyn and RedMolly for their help in working through this chapter. It's much appreciated.


End file.
